Pound for Pound (44 page)

Chicky would get twenty-five. “I’d fight him for free, just to get my teeth into him.”

“Naw,” Earl said. “A man works, a man gets paid.”

D
r. Kogon, Earl, and Chicky were standing in the hall when Father Joe came toward them carrying a small, black, leather-covered case.

“I would have come sooner, but the housekeeper at the rectory doesn’t always get messages to me on time. Guess she thinks us old retired guys shouldn’t be disturbed.”

“Well,
padre,
we just thought …” Chicky began to explain.

“Dan isn’t doing so well, Father,” Kogon said. “We expect a certain percentage of patients to have a rough time after a quadruple bypass. But Dan’s problem isn’t physical, as far as we can tell. The psychological part of it is another matter. He went into a depression after the angioplasty. This is different. He just isn’t fighting—and if he doesn’t fight, we can’t win.”

It was nine days after the match with Sykes. Dan had been in intensive coronary care for six days after the bypass operation. He was now in a private room on the coronary-surgery floor.

“I understand. I have seen this before, many times,” Father Joe said with a sigh. “But is he willing—prepared?”
Earl rubbed his eyes; he had not clocked a lot of sleep in the last forty-eight hours.

“Prepared. Well, I don’t know. But what he needs is sumpin they don’t have here.”

Kogon simply nodded his head in agreement and left.

“You must understand,” Father Joe said quietly. “This is also a sacrament of healing for many. But only if there is a desire to be healed.”

He turned away and went through the door into Dan’s room. The blinds were halfway closed, leaving the still figure on the high hospital bed in a kind of twilight. Above the bed was a bank of monitors, green traces running across the screens. In a kind of counterpoint, a faint but regular beeping noise could be heard in the background.

Dan’s eyes were closed. An IV bottle was hanging on a stand with a clear plastic tube leading into a butterfly needle in Dan’s arm. Another tube was feeding oxygen into Dan’s nostrils.

Father Joe pushed aside a carafe of ice water on the top of the table beside the bed. Slowly unzipping his case, he removed two candles and a container of oil for anointment. Before he could remove all of the contents, Dan’s eyes suddenly opened. A prayer to the Blessed Mother went through the priest’s mind: “Be with us …
nunc et in hora
… now and at the hour of our death.”

He bent over the bed and grasped Dan’s hand. He was careful not to touch the tubes running into him.

“My dear friend, can you hear me?”

“All too well. What’s that you’re up to?”

“I think you know.”

“Not now!” Dan seemed to rally and his voice became stronger, more insistent. “So it’s my time, is that what yer thinkin?”

“That’s in God’s hands.” The priest paused and then added, “And in yours.”

Dan’s free hand stirred restlessly on the sheet that covered him.

“No. Not mine!”
Father Joe thought for a moment and asked, “Do you want to make a general confession? It’s easy enough. Just ask God’s forgiveness for all your sins. Which are probably not as many as you think.”

“Ah, I could use a shot of that top-shelf bourbon Brigid used to pour for you, Father!” Dan managed a brief smile. “But it’s not God’s forgiveness I seek.”

Dan had been working with Chicky right up to the week of the fight with Sykes when he’d keeled over with a massive coronary infarction. What saved Dan’s ass, at least for the moment, was Earl’s giving him mouth-to-mouth. And the paramedics getting there in record time.

Dan had no memory of the lightning bolt that had hit him.

He remembered waking up and looking around. It was a different environment from the “storage room” of the angioplasty. He saw what looked like walls made of dark stripes of amber and black and umber glass separated by strips of gray tilting at a forty-five-degree angle. Where was he? What kind of room would be constructed of umber and amber glass?

Sometime—hours? days?—later he opened his eyes again. The room looked the same. Suddenly the pain was so intense that he could not protect himself from it, could not find a way to slip it, to block it, to counter-punch.

He closed his eyes again, and this time tumbling cubes and cylinders and spheres and rectangles and triangles, isosceles and otherwise, came shooting at him from deep space. He opened and closed his eyes several times to drive off the angles and curves, but they were immediately replaced by other bizarre objects that came hurtling toward and past him in absolute silence.

Once again Dan opened his eyes and tried to survey the room, desperate to focus on something peaceful and familiar, like a typical hospital room. But all he could see was the surrounding space enclosed by the ominous slanted dark glass walls. He closed his eyes. More hurtling
geometric objects bursting forth from a black beyond triple black. He sensed that he was hallucinating, but didn’t understand that it was caused by drugs. The deadening chemicals flooding his body and brain were no match for this new pain. It was like an animal chewing its way through him.

He wondered if this was the way he was going out, all pissy and cringing. Was this to be his final round? Was this hyena thing rooting inside him what life had had in store for him from the beginning? Why had it waited so long? He’d known from early on that he’d end up six feet under, no surprise there, but in his conceit, he’d always thought he’d be man enough not to whimper and cringe.

Dilaudid had knocked him flat, left him strung out and numb and wet with cold sweat. Oxygen up his nose. An IV in his veins. Heart monitors and electric leads. But none of it helped break the jaws of the thing gorging on his entrails.

Time eluded him.
How long had this business been going on, for Christ’s sake? No! Not Christ’s sake, and not God’s sake. Not nobody’s sake, least of all a fiction’s.

The postsurgery pain was so bad for a while that he no longer wished to live. Yet those first days, right next to his bed, there had been an apparatus with a miracle push button. It flooded his IV with sticky sleep, and he willingly used it as often as the pain jolted him awake. If only he hadn’t squandered that morphine! If only he had enough left to OD.

Dan was alone with some animal gnawing at his guts. The hallucinations multiplied, and as their hurtling onslaught of unearthly shapes increased, so did the pain. Calvary flickered on and off amid the geometric items.

Christ sure as hell could never have suffered the fucking cross if I can’t suffer this. It’s lies, all of Him. No one could take that.

Images of thorns and spikes and the mockery of INRI—Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews, the crown of thorns, the cup of gall, the spear in
Christ’s side. “They have pierced my hands and my feet. They have numbered all my bones.”

No, I will not think of this. Fuck Christ. Only I am here, I only. I am God, yes! But no, no, how could I be God when I am unable to endure this thing that is happening inside me.

Dan brushed away the memory of those horrors, returning to the present, to the anxious priest still standing beside his bed, and he looked up. His mouth was suddenly very dry, but he managed to croak, “Not a general confession, Father. Just one thing.”

Afterward, Father Joe came out of the room and walked over to where Chicky and Earl were slumped in two uncomfortable plastic chairs.

“Who is Lupe?”

Chicky stared at Earl, who was blowing on his steaming-hot coffee, sitting at a table in the nearly deserted hospital cafeteria.

Earl heaved a sigh and said, “She was drivin the car that hit Dan’s grandson. Wasn’t her fault—just a damn assident. Tim Pat stepped in front of her car, no way she could have stopped and not hit him. But he blames her. Jus’ can’t stop blamin and they ain’t no one to blame in this.”

“So why does Dan want to see her?” Chicky asked. He sensed there was a lot more to the story.

“Well, quite a time ‘fore you showed up, this all happened. After the little boy, Tim Pat, was killed, Dan went kinda crazy. He’d start leavin the shop all kinds of hours and driving around. I didn’t have no idea of where the hell he was a lot of the time.”

Earl paused and took a long gulp of coffee. “You unnerstan’ that I was gettin worried. Then came the mornin I find Dan sittin on the floor with the Caddy all shot up and I found out what’s goin on.” Earl didn’t
mention the shotgun and the drinking and the suicide stuff. Chicky didn’t need to know about that. Nobody did.

“Then he tells me that he’s going off on a trip. I figured that be for the best if he went away for a while. I figgered, he wouldn’t be … well, anyhow, he went off, called me once and a while, said he was in this town or that. No way I could be sure where he really was, but I was pretty sure he was nowhere near L.A. I was still ‘fraid that he … well, I guess I was afraid
for
him.”

Earl told Chicky that he had gone to see Raul Nájera and gotten a copy of the accident report.

“Nájera—he’s a good cop, jus’ like he was a damn good fighter. He tole me that there was no way this was the girl’s fault. Tole me about Dan’s makin noises about a cover-up. Dan was lucky—Nájera cut him some slack, ‘cuz he understood that kind of crazy grief. Then, all a sudden, Dan, he comes back, lookin like hell and thin enough to see through.”

Earl yawned and stretched, then went on. “And then
you
showed up. Well, you was just what Dan Cooley needed. Now he need somebody else.”

“Lupe?”

“Yeah,” Earl replied. “But I reckon she’s not gonna be all that innerested in seein Dan Cooley.”

Earl yawned again and shook his head, trying to get rid of the fog of his fatigue.

“Well, we ain’t gonna know ‘less we try. I got her address,” Earl said. “Let’s go. You drive. I’ll tell you where to go.”

Earl stood up and shoved his chair against the table. He wasn’t sure just what kind of reception they were going to get when they showed up. But one way or the other, they would persuade her to come.

Earl and Chicky stood at the front door of the Ayala home and pressed the doorbell. They had to wait a long time before the door opened and Lupe’s mother confronted them.
She stared at Earl and asked, “Do I know you?”

In that particular close-knit part of L.A., it was unlikely that anyone knew him, a black man where he was not supposed to be. He was glad that Chicky was standing there with him.

“No, ma’am, but I think you know about Dan Cooley.”

Chicky removed his hat and said, “Ma’am, this here’s Earl Daw. He’s Dan’s business partner. I work at their shop. My name is Eduardo Garza. We sure would ‘preciate a chance to talk to your daughter.”

When she heard Chicky’s accent, she seemed to relax a little and asked, “What’s the reason you want to talk to her?”

Chicky thought fast and said, “Mr. Cooley’s real sick and he asked us to send a message to your daughter. I swear to you it ain’t nothin bad. If she would just hear us out.”

“Well, I have to ask Lupe. It’s up to her if she wants to see you.”

Before she closed the door, she said, “You just wait here.”

Ten minutes passed before the door opened again and Lupe, her mother hovering behind her, appeared. Chicky was almost struck dumb. She was so beautiful. Even the shadows under her eyes, the signs of strain on her face, nothing could hide her radiance.

“What is this message from Mr. Cooley?” she asked, her voice low and hesitant. Chicky addressed her gravely, formally, in his Tex-Mex version of correct Spanish in order to show his respect and, he hoped, create some kind of bond with her.

“Señorita, Señor Cooley está muy enfermo. El quiere verte. Yo sé que es difícil … pero tú le harías un gran favor.”

Chicky hoped his genuine conviction came through; Dan was very sick. Chicky knew it would be difficult for her, but she would do Dan a great service,
un gran favor.

Before she could reply, her mother broke in.

“¿Exactamente cuán grave es la enfermedad?” Just how sick is he?

“Puede ser que vaya a morir. Pero creo que si su hija viene a visitarlo en el hospital podría hacer una diferencia bien grande.”
Even as he told the two
women that Dan might die, Chicky refused to believe it could happen. But he was also firmly convinced that what he said was true—Lupe’s visit really
could
make a great difference, and turn the tide currently running against Dan.

Her mother looked at Lupe and spoke to her softly.

“Escucha, mi amorcita, tienes que hacerlo. Tal vez puedas ayudar a que este hombre se quite el odio del corazón.” The decision was up to Lupe; but she must go, try to help Dan get rid of the hatred in his heart.

“Sí, Mamá, tiene razón. Debo verlo aunque sea para pedirnos perdón.”

She turned to Earl and explained, “I think my mother is right. I will go with you. Perhaps we can forgive each other.”

It seemed to take forever for the elevator to reach the fourth floor. Patients, doctors, and nurses, people pushing food carts, got on and off at every floor. A late afternoon calm had fallen over the hospital. The evening shift was about to come on.

Earl gently took Lupe by the arm and guided her down the hall.

“He don’t look so good, Miz Ayala, but don’t you worry—he’s a tough ol’ bird.”

He ushered her through the doorway and withdrew. Father Joe sat on the room’s only chair, head bowed, stole still around his neck. The priest looked up and said,
“Buenas tardes,
Lupe. I am so very glad that you came.”

Dan had been propped up in the bed. The board taped to his arm to support the IV butterfly was sticking out at an awkward angle. Father Joe got up, moved the chair closer to the bed, and invited Lupe to sit down. Gathering her long skirt, she gracefully sat in the chair and looked directly at Dan.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you,” Dan said.

“Yes, Mr. Cooley. But long overdue.”

“Yes, long overdue.”

Each waited for the other to speak. Lupe broke the silence.